


The Wolf

by Taransay



Series: The Wolves of Jorrvaskr [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6579175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taransay/pseuds/Taransay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You continue Kodlak’s dreams to purge Hircine’s blood from The Companions. Yet you can’t help but feel the calling of the wolf inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: The Stag

You’ve been marked. Branded. It’s obvious.

You trace your fingers over the pale, wrinkled flesh, and wonder about the scar’s purpose. Is it there to remind Hircine that your soul is his to collect?

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

No.

It’s there to remind you.

It appeared two weeks ago. Two weeks ago when Vilkas lay dying from spider venom. Two weeks ago when you begged Hircine to spare Vilkas’ soul, and take yours instead.

Your mouth feels dry. It feels as if something is stuck in the back of your throat. You swallow.

Since his death, Kodlak’s journal has become your talisman. Your holy book. You go to it looking for advice. Comfort. Always scanning the entries in hope of finding some underlying thread of guidance.

The journal lies open in front of you.

You pick up it up, turn the pages in rapid succession.

A page creases under your clumsy fingers. You smooth your hands across the parchment and try to push out the wrinkles, fearful that they might smudge the ink, distort the former Harbinger’s words.

You stare at the words on the pages until they blur together. Realisation hits you. The words are empty. Nothing more than the relics of a dead man.

Kodlak’s books and clothing are still dotted around the room. They reinforce the feeling that he isn’t dead, he’s gone somewhere and could return soon. No one knows what to do. You don’t know what to do. Is it too soon to remove his possessions? Will the others think you are trying to remove every trace of him? 

In the pit of your stomach, a feeling stirs, like a flock of birds startled from a corn field. The chair legs scrap against the wooden floor as you stand.

* * *

It’s gone past midnight. There’s no one in the main hall of Jorrvaskr. Mugs lie abandoned on the table. It’s dark apart from the faint glow of embers from the open hearth.

Your breath quickens. Before, you never minded the dark. But now you feel like the shadows betray you, conspire against you and conceal those that wish to hunt you.

You long for noise to fill Jorrvaskr and chase away the night. The brash, garish revelry, when drinking games are in full swing and stories are swapped around the fire.

A pain, like you’ve been stabbed by a dagger made of ice, exudes from the scar. When the pain subsides you’re left with an ache that creeps up and coils around your arm. You slap your hand on top your arm and squeeze your fingers down and around the scar beneath the sleeve of your shirt.

Since two weeks ago, the cravings have become stronger. Before you used your wolf form to gain an advantage in battle, but you’ve never felt the need to change any other time.

You pace from one side of the hall to the other, sweep a hand through your unkempt hair. The hall walls, the ceiling, it feels like they are about to fall in on you.

You could change here.

No. You couldn’t.

You see the ghost of Kodlak’s body where the others lay him next to the hearth. He’s eyes are closed. He’s bleeding out. He’s dead because you weren’t at Jorrvaskr.

If you changed - just this once - would Kodlak be disappointed?

The embers in the hearth sing their elegy with a hisses and snaps.

Not here. You can’t change here. What if the other Companions saw you? You’re meant to be setting an example. Besides - you look over your shoulder, around the room, and the stairway you emerged from - you can’t help but think that Kodlak’s dead gaze is fixed on this place.

* * *

The forest lies ahead of you. You can’t see what lies behind the veil of darkness that winds around everything but the first boarder of trees.

You’ve crossed fields. Passed the wooden buildings with their thatched roofs of Pelagia farm and Honningbrew Meadery. Now that Whiterun is behind you, you feel nothing but the urge strip and run until you meet that point where the sky meets the horizon and the oceans cascade of the edge of the world.

You breathe through your nostrils. The wind catches your hair. You begin to tug at the shirt you’re wearing and then you stop.

A stag ambles out from the darkness of the woods. It bends its head and nibbles on some grass.

Your eyes narrow. 

The creature appears translucent.

Is it a ghost, some kind of wisp?

The stag lifts its head, stares at you with hollow eyes.

It gaze cuts through your body and sears your soul. You take a step backwards. When you breathe, you inhale air unsteadily.

The creature darts back into the woods, lighting up the shadows with its eerie glow.

You follow.


	2. II: The Wolf

Hircine gave his blood to Terrfyg.

In the days and nights that followed, Terrfyg became aware that unlike other manbeasts, he had complete control over his transformations. Not only that, but, whilst in beast form he retained his mind.

The same blood runs through you.

Another time, control over your beastly nature would be a benefit. But as you run after the stag, your heart drumming in your chest and blood pulsing through your head, you find yourself wishing that for once, you could lose yourself to the wolf.

The trees become dense. You trample through overgrowth, brambles that come up to your thighs.

The brambles snag your clothes, clutch at you like hands trying to stop you from continuing. You stop running, bend forwards, rest your hands upon your knees and catch your breath.

Your breath curls out in front of you, fine wisps of smoke.

Your lungs ache. An ache that scrabbles up from your chest and curls around the back of your throat.

There’s no sign of the ghostly stag.

The darkness cocoons you.

Jagged tree branches resemble skeletal arms and hands. You wrap your arms around yourself, attempt to suppress a shudder. You envisage your sword back at Jorrvaskr, propped up against what was once Kodlak’s but now yours bed.

What idiot forgets their weapon?

You rest a hand next to the spot where the sword would hang, and crave its reassuring weight.

There’s a branch beneath a bush close to where you stand. It’s the right size for an ideal weapon. You pick it up, and swing it, hoping to assure yourself with the noise it makes as it swings through the air.

What made you forget your weapon?

You push a hand past the side of your face and through your hair. There’s beads of cold sweat on your skin, and you try to control the tremors in your hand.

The wolf. The wolf made you forget.

These past two weeks all you have thought about is the wolf. And you’ve become daring, reckless.

When you first took Hircine’s blood from The Circle, it never affected you like this. You saw it only as a boon, something to be used to help turn the tide of a fight in your favour. Now? Now, you think about it all the time.

You’ve managed to resist it. Until now.

Once, you shared Kodlak’s ambition to free the Circle from Hircine’s contract.

Once?

When did that change?

_Two weeks ago._

You place your hand over the scar. The wound you got, two weeks ago.

A sound comes from behind you. Bushes being parted. Someone walking. No, not walking. Their footfalls are heavey, lopsided. Someone _stumbles_ towards you.

You whirl round, branch raised.

Engar stares at you with empty eye sockets.

Jumbled thoughts tumble through your head. You try to make sense of the figure who stands in front of you.

You stare back.

Engar is _dead._

Engar extends an arm towards you. Skin hangs from the parts of his body that isn’t covered by clothes encrusted with dirt. A skein of veins protrude from the gash at his neck.

You watched this man die. Saw the blade from the Falmer’s dagger rip into Engar’s throat.

In the blackness at the back of your mind, the floor is splattered with Engar’s blood. The blood glistens in the dark. A permanent reminder of your failure.

Engar’s fingers clutch at the air. His fingertips are bone.

‘You failed me.’ His voice rattles like leaves in the wind. _'I am dead because of you. My family will starve. The farm will be raided. No one will protect them. They cannot survive without me. They will die.’_

Engar melts into the night, until all that remains is his voice. _'You are Harbinger? The Divine’s help The Companions, for you cannot.’_

A coldness settles in the pit of your stomach. Your makeshift weapon slips out of your fingers and collides with the ground.

The coldness spreads from your stomach and clambers up your spine. It sucks on the marrow in your bones until you feel numb.

You should go back to Jorrvaskr.

Your arms shake.

You should tell The Circle about the scar. About Hircine.

_You should…_

You _should_ have saved Engar.

You feel the colour drain from your face.

The world feels as if it has been swept from beneath you. The sky is the floor. The ground is the sky.

You stagger forwards, choke on saliva, cough and tighten your hands into fists. 

You don’t want this responsibility.

You don’t want this guilt.

Kodlak should never have picked you. Should never have even presumed that you’d want to become Harbinger. You have enough to worry about.

_He substituted your problems, your worries, with his own. He drowned himself in his own turmoil. He was self-interested, self-seeking. He used you to fulfil his own goals, and when he could not do that he left you with the burden of them._

You feel hands upon your shoulders, fingers that run up the curve of your spine and touch the skin on the back of your neck.

The fingers are callous and rough and warm and _comforting._

Someone helps you stand, pulls you backwards towards them. The skin on your arms prickles against naked flesh.

_'You need the wolf inside you.’_ A whispered voice next to your ear. You feel their warm breath on the skin of your neck. _'It makes you stronger.’_

Your nostrils fill with the smell of undergrowth and dirt, and beneath that, the smell of sweat and stale blood. It doesn’t repulse you. Instead you breathe in deep.

'A predator such as you, need not be afraid.’

The chill seeps out of your bones. From their touch you feel warmth like heat from a camp fire.

Yes. You no longer want to be afraid.

You’ve wanted this. Haven’t you? You clung to Vilkas’ words when he said that Engar’s death wasn’t your fault.

It’s okay. You can admit it. You want comfort.

Your muscles tense.

But you’re Harbinger. You can’t appear fragile.

Since entering Skyrim you’ve been shunned and pushed. Nearly executed with no apology, and people only acknowledge you when they want something.

No one said 'it’s okay. You’re okay. It’ll be alright’ though you yearned them to.

Then they heard you were Dovahkiin. Now everyone wants your attention.

You feel the chest of the one standing behind you, rise and fall, and your breathing automatically falls in synch with theirs. 

You think about Vilkas.

In the beginning Vilkas hadn’t any time to spare you. Then he’d softened, like ice melting in the First Seed sun. What had changed? Why was he bothered all of a sudden? Why had he wrapped a cloak around you upon exiting Ysgramor’s Tomb? Why had he remarked upon your Amulet of Mara after you had defeated the dragon? He’d confessed that he’d doubted whether you’d been Dovahkiin, but all doubt had been erased when he’d seen the Thu'um for himself.

The figure behind you snakes a hand around your waist. 'It is because you are Harbinger. It is because you are Dragonborn.’

Your stomach curls in on itself. You look at the floor.

This is what you’d suspected.

Did Vilkas see you as an opportunity? Someone with power that he could use?

Fingers comb through your hair, strands twisted around a finger.

'The Hunt needs a leader. Who better than one born of a dragon?’

_The Companions need a leader._

_It’s not you._

Fingers run down the side of your face, stroke your jawbone and tilt your head upwards.

Hands frame either side of your head, make you look at what’s in front of you.

There’s a stag not far from where you stand. Its head is bent and as it nibbles on a tuft of grass. It isn’t the one you chased into the forest.

A growl builds at the back of your throat.

'Strike down the stag. Feast upon it, drink its blood. _For me._ ’

The warmth that enveloped you disperses, and the cold, early morning air rushes in to fill the gap.

Shuddering, you tug at the sleeves of your ill-fitting tunic. You pull it off over your head.

You don’t care.

The burden of Skyrim, The Companions - _their problems_ \- are lifted from your shoulders as you surrender your mortal form. Your emotions fall to the floor with your clothes.

Your bones snap and crack. You stagger forwards, fall onto your hands and knees.

As your throat adjusts to your transformation, a strangled howl breaks free from your throat.

The stag snaps its head up, its eyes wide. For a second it is frozen in time, and then it breaks free of paralysis and darts off in the opposite direction.

You howl again, and your howl is met with a reply.

As you surge forwards to begin the hunt you are joined by another wolf. He is bigger than you. Much bigger.

Both of you hunt the stag, pursuing it and partaking in a dance older than Nirn itself. When the stag is overcome with fatigue the bigger wolf allows you to make the first move.

You go for the throat. Feel the warmth of life and the dull tang of blood fill your mouth. Sever tendons and muscle with your teeth.

You feast.

Afterwards, you lie next to what remains of the carcass. The other wolf sits, towering over you. It dips its head and licks the patch of fur where the scar would be on your mortal arm.

You fall asleep, stomach full of food and empty of grief.

And you dream of a moon. And it is blood red.


	3. III: The Hunter

He doesn’t usually hunt. It’s not his style. He’s too big to move stealthy, and he prefers to cut things open with his large sword. But Aela bet five sweetrolls that he wouldn’t be able to catch a thing.

‘Aela said I wouldn’t be able to hunt, even if a slaughterfish jumped out of the river, danced on my lap and slapped me in the face,’ he said to Vilkas, remembering Aela’s comment word for word.

'Well,’ Vilkas snapped. He seemed more irritable than usual. 'What is it Kodlak always told you?’

'Go prove them wrong.’

'Then go prove her wrong.’ His twin brother slapped him on the shoulder, and walked away.

So he’s swapped his heavy armour for some leather he’s borrowing from another Companion, left his sword at home and snagged a bow from Eorlund.

'Prove,’ he mutters under his breath, pulls back the string of the bow, and squints. 'Aela,’ his hands wobble with concentration as he takes aim on the rabbit sniffing a clump of mushrooms. He grits his teeth, sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth. 'Wrong.’

He’s about to let the arrow fly. Then he sees something out of the corner of his eye.

There’s a body lying in the undergrowth, next to the mushrooms.

He drops the arrow, slings the bow onto his shoulder, and crashes through the bushes.

The rabbit dashes away.

'Hello?’ he says, approaching the body.

Their face is covered by their hair, which is matted with leaves and twigs. Mud flecks their torso, their hands and feet are caked in it. Dewdrops have settled on their naked flesh.

Heat seeps into his face.

'Do you need help?’ he asks, and pulls the thick, fur-lined cloak from around his shoulders. Then he bends down and pulls the cloak over the body.

He wonders what’s happened to the person, why they’re in the woods. Why they’re naked. He’s heard stories about witches tricking people and stealing their clothes. Usually male Nords. 

He scratches his nose, ruffles his beard.

Best check they’re alive. Could be talking to a dead body.

He leans forwards and pulls strands of tangled hair away from the person’s face.

'Harbinger?’

You lie before him. Your eyes are closed.

'Harbinger?’

He drops the bow, kneels by your side and scoops the top part of you to him.

You flop in his arms like one of those straw dolls farmers put in their fields to scare away birds.

'Harbinger, it’s Farkas.’

Your blood smeared lips part. Mumbled words tumble from them. It’s no language Farkas recognises. 

Your eyes shoot open. Your pupils dart around, they don’t focus. Then the lids of your eyes snap shut again.

'It’s okay,’ Farkas soothes. He presses a thumb against your cheek and smudges away the dirt and flakes of blood. 'I’ve got you. Farkas will take you home.’

* * *

The first rays of morning begin to push through a gap between the snow-capped mountains on the horizon.

Farkas climbs the stone steps of Jorrvaskr, with you in his arms.

Your body is bundled in his fur cloak. He’s made sure that no part of you sticks out. Determined to keep you warm, he clings to you, pressing you tight to his chest. He knows that you’ll benefit from his body heat.

He doesn’t speculate what you were doing out in the woods. Particularly what you were doing out in the woods with no clothes on, covered in blood (which after checking, he discovered wasn’t your own) and mud. After all, it’s nothing to do with him. His main concern is that you are safe.

Aela stands by the large front doors. She yawns loudly so that all her teeth are on display, stretches her arms above her head.

'For once I got a lie in this morning. Someone else doing the hunting.' She gives a wolfish grin. 'Though I have a feeling it’s a good job we have food in storage and don’t have to rely on what you’ve caught.’

Her eyes lock onto your covered body.

'Farkas,’ she says, as he reaches the top step. 'You didn’t. We’re not meant to hunt…’

'Didn’t,“ he snaps, and barges past, through the doors and into the mead hall.

Aela strides in after him.

'You think I’d hurt the new Kodlak?’

'The new Kodlak? You mean the Harbinger?’ She pauses. 'That’s the Harbinger?’

'Go get Vilkas,’ Farkas says, as he carries you through the empty mead hall.

She snorts. 'I don’t know where he is.’

Farkas takes you to one of the empty rooms on the left side of the hall. Still wrapped in his cloak and despite the grimy state your body is in, he lies you in one of the empty beds and folds a fur blanket over your still body.

Your muscles tense. You clutch at the blanket with rigid arms and fingers bent in claw-like shapes. You open your mouth and mutter in the language that Farkas doesn’t recognise.

Aela folds her arms across her chest. 'That’s Daedric,’ she says.

'How do you know?’

'A while back I tracked some cultists,’ she shrugs.

Farkas smoothes his hand across your forehead and your muscles relax. Your head lolls to one side.

'Go find Vilkas,’ Farkas says. 'He’ll know what to do.’


	4. IV: At His Mercy

‘As usual, you’re wrong,’ Aela says. She sits at the campfire they’ve made, scrutinising the end of an arrow. 

Farkas sits hunched. 'I caught something.’

'The Harbinger doesn’t count.’

He reaches for a bundle behind him and throws three rabbits, tied at the ears, at the space in front of her crossed legs.

'Those are what I hunted before I found the Harbinger.’

Vilkas pushes aside bushes and marches towards the fire. His thick brows are furrowed, and his mouth is a thin line.

'Why am I the last to know?’ He snarls. 'Ria told me she’d seen Farkas carrying someone who looked like the Harbinger.’

Farkas looks up, gazes at his brother, and then looks at Aela, frowning. 'I told you to find Vilkas.’

Aela puts the arrow down. 'Where were you? I couldn’t pick up your scent anywhere in - ’

'Where’s the Harbinger?’ His glare is as pointed as a dagger.

You want to talk, want to let them know that you’re right there, but your vocals don’t respond to your commands.

You see them. They’re right in front of you. But you realise from where you’re standing on all fours, you’re looking down on them.

You try to turn your head to the side but it’s fixed facing forwards. You’re on all fours and then you realise. You are stuck in the form of a wolf. Not just any wolf, a stone wolf.

The statue of Hircine looms next to you, his stone hand forever pressed to the flank of your neck.

Farkas scrabbles onto his feet without saying a word, walks off and Vilkas follows him.

There’s a scream lodged in the back of your throat.

You feel a hand smooth the fur on the top of your head.

The Daedric Prince is no longer stone. His head, obscured by the stag mask, is tilted down towards you. Though you can’t see his eyes you know they are fixed on you.

There’s a voice. It speaks in a language you think might be Daedric. Then you realise it’s your own. You ask Hircine to let you go. You ask him what he wants.

He strokes your ears, pushes them down flat.

The first rays of the morning sun highlight the flanks of his deer dappled legs.

The world blurs.

You open your eyes and see the wooden beams and cladding of Jorrvaskr, the crimson red banners.

'I don’t know,’ Vilkas says. 'I don’t speak Daedric.’

Vilkas sits on the side of the bed. He cups your chin with his rough hand.

He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again. You stare at each other. He doesn’t remove his hand.

'Are we even sure it’s Daedric?’ Farkas says.

'If Aela says it is, I am inclined to believe her,’ Vilkas says, without looking away from you. He rubs his thumb against your cheek. 'You had us worried wolf pup, where has your mind been wandering?’

* * *

When you became Harbinger you and the Circle enforced 'Kodlak’s Law’. Despite the name, it isn’t a law, but guidelines on how you and The Circle think The Companions should continue to be managed.

It goes like this:

Foremost, no new member of The Circle or The Companions will be given Hircine’s blood.

Secondly, those that wish to be cured will be helped in all ways possible. Likewise, all those that wished to keep the blood are allowed to do so. Neither will receive criticism for their choices.

Thirdly, all those shunned by the world because they carry Hircine’s blood are to be welcomed into The Companions, providing they retain their minds whilst in beast form. If they seek a cure, help will be given. If they wish to keep the blood, respect will be given.

Fourthly, and most important of all, The Companions should strive with their best intent to return The Companions to the way Ysgramor intended.

All of this should be kept in mind with remembrance and utmost respect for Kodlak Whitemane.

'We should keep this between ourselves,’ Vilkas says, and Farkas nods.

You’ve told the twins about your venture into the woods. You’ve let them believe it’s because you’re having a hard time not giving into your beastly nature. 

'I know what it’s like,’ Vilkas says. 'But we should refrain from telling anyone else. It’s hard, but we have to set an example. Give them something to follow.’

Your stomach somersaults at Vilkas’ usage of the word 'we’.

_He uses you for his own gain._ The words intrude upon your mind causing the somersaults to end in mid flow, and a void to open in the pit of your stomach. The words are not said in your voice, but Hircine’s.

Hircine. 

The void in your stomach expands. Your heart quickens, and your hands are clammy. You recall the warmth of Hircine’s skin, the rise and fall of his chest as he stood behind you, and your skin tingles.

That couldn’t have been real.

You don’t tell the brothers about Hircine.

And the wolf? Who had that been. You look at Farkas. No, he’d been the one who’d found you. Vilkas then?

Vilkas’ presses a damp cloth against your forehead. You recoil, and Vilkas stops, his hand hovering in midair.

'What’s wrong?’ Vilkas says. 'Are you in pain?’

Why the unkind words in the beginning, and now the concern? Could a person change so quickly with genuine feeling?

* * *

Damp hair clings to your face. Taking a bath has cleared the fog from your brain and comforted your aching muscles. Meanwhile a mug of mead has washed out the taste of stale blood.

You sit on one of the steps that lead up to Jorrvaskr. The mead hall sits behind you.

When you first saw Jorrvaskr you thought it looked like a giant had taken a boat and turned it upside-down. Later, Eorlund told you that, Jorrvaskr had indeed once been a longboat.

You watch the branches of the Gildergreen sway, the recently sprung pink leaves, tremble in the early afternoon wind.

You twist your fingers in your hands.

You’re putting off the inevitable because you’re not sure how to tell them that you intend to leave. Therefore, you decide the best way to do it is to not tell them.

The scar itches and you rub your hand over it. You want to know more about it. What it means. Maybe a mage would know?

A sweetroll dangles in front of your face. You turn. Farkas looks down at you.

'Aela disputed whether I had actually caught the rabbits,’ he says. 'But I took the sweetrolls anyway. A deals a deal.’

Farkas bends and you shift over to give him room to sit. Even when sitting he resembles a mountain.

'Sometimes Kodlak would sit right where you’re sitting and watch the tree with pink leaves. He said the Harbinger before him used to do the same. Must be something in the people that make all Harbingers alike.’

You stiffen, tell him that you and Kodlak are aren’t alike.

'Vilkas used to say the same about me and him.’ Farkas bites into his sweetroll. Crumbs tumble from his mouth and tangle in his beard. He wipes them away with the back of his hand.

'When we were pups, some of the children picked on us because we were twins and alike. Vilkas never liked that. Then one day I lifted one of the bullies up and thumped him. After that Vilkas said he was proud to be my brother.’

You stretch your legs out in front of you. There’s nothing you can say to that except tell Farkas that sometimes his brother can be an idiot.

'It’s alright,’ he balances the half eaten sweetroll on his knee. 'I know you’re leaving. Something to do with the mark on your arm. I saw it last night when you didn’t have any clothes on.’

You look away, feel your cheeks go red.

'Don’t worry,’ he says. 'It isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. Though you’re a lot more sightly, that’s for sure.’

You can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s smiling.

You don’t know how Farkas knows you intend to leave. What you do know is that he’s far more intelligent than most give him credit for.

He asks where you’ll go. You tell him you know a mage from the College of Winterhold who is currently lodged in Windhelm.

'When you’ve found whatever answers you are looking for,’ Farkas says, 'come back to us. Your friends are here.’ He gets up, leaves you with two more sweetrolls and walks off.

* * *

You leave your horse tethered outside of the woods.

It’s curiosity that has brought you back. That and to retrieve your clothes, because you’d rather spend money on weapons and food for travelling rather than replacing garments. But as you draw your sword, step across fallen logs and push brambles and branches aside, you remind yourself that it was curiosity that killed the Khajiit.

The woods are hard to navigate. Your memories of time spent as a wolf are vague.

You’re about to give up, head back to your horse when you spot what you’re looking for.

A thought occurs to you. It’s like someone guided you here, as if someone wanted you to find your clothes.

They’re in a pile on the floor.

On top of them is the bleached white skull of a stag.


End file.
